


Elephants

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domesticity, Heaping doses of UST, M/M, also elephants, bit of casefic, both literal and figurative, but the cases are not the focus here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: Sparks are starting to fly between John and Sherlock, leading them both to wonder if there might be something more in store for their relationship. But it's starting to seem as though the universe is plotting against them, in a very creative yet obvious way.Or... every time their killer UST is interrupted by a literal elephant in the room.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Elephants

PRECIOUS ITEMS STOLEN. Pls HELP. asap AS POSSIBLE.

That was the entirety of the email that pinged into Sherlock’s email sometime on a Monday morning. He read it with an eye roll, but couldn’t even bother to delete it. John and Sherlock were sat at the breakfast table, a comfortable silence settled about the flat like a warm blanket. From the flat below, they could hear Mrs Hudson’s music playing (blaring, really, to be heard over the sound of the hoover). A light rain was falling outside and Sherlock had a mind to set a fire in the grate soon. He picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. John had made it this morning while Sherlock had done some half-hearted research into an old case. He’d been planning to add some notes about the various tensile strengths to his blog, but hadn’t done much else than scribble in the margins of his notebook. Not that anyone read his blog anymore. No need, with John spinning his tales of heroism on his own blog, romanticising their chosen career in such a way as to make it seem easy, as if anyone else could do what he —they— did. 

People really did seem to love it though and even Sherlock had to admit (quietly, to himself. Never aloud) that John did have a natural storytelling ability, even if he could be rather florid. The thought made him glance up briefly at the man in question. John was sat across from him, dressed comfortably in an old RAMC t-shirt and cotton pajama trousers. Sherlock didn’t have to check to know that John’s feet were bare because they always were in the morning, even though they were also usually cold. When he stood in the kitchen to make breakfast or coffee, he shifted from one foot to the other, rubbing the soles against the bottom third of his trouser legs in equal turn. He probably thought he was generating warmth from the friction, but most likely he was just rubbing off leg hairs. Sherlock thought it rather endearing, though maddening. 

The Times was spread out haphazardly on the table between them. John read it methodically, though not from front to back. No, John always started with the crime section, reading aloud interesting bits that he knew would catch Sherlock’s attention, though the latter often scoffed or commented on the uninspired disappointment that was London’s criminal class. Today’s offerings had been a variety of robberies, some drug charges and a domestic shooting near an abandoned block of flats. The most interesting headline had been about a man that threatened the police with a power tool, though the story proved to be much less interesting. Nonetheless, Sherlock had chuckled when John did a dramatic reading of the column, complete with sound effects. 

His email pinged, his mobile buried somewhere beneath the business section, immediately and always discarded by John. Sherlock ignored it, taking another long slurp of his coffee and reaching for the plate (John’s plate, no matter) of toast balanced precariously on a stack of books. John made to grab the last triangle of toast, but Sherlock’s fingers were more nimble. 

“Oi. Getcher own brekkie. I offered to make you some.” But it was half-hearted scolding, John’s eyes never even lifting from the newspaper. This was all part of their routine. It was comfortable. It was...good. 

Sherlock’s mobile sounded again, this time with a text, the alert one of a hissing cat.  _ Mycroft. _

John snorted. 

“Big brother got an upgrade? Nice.”

Sherlock grinned, pleased with himself, pleased with John, pleased with the entirety of this Monday. 

“Couldn’t find a grunting pig noise that I liked. This one was an acceptable alternative.” 

John looked up from the paper then, with an amused and fond eye roll.

“You’re a bad man, Sherlock Holmes.” He wagged his finger across the table. “What’s his Lordship want now?”

“Nothing of consequence, assuredly.” Sherlock unlocked the screen with his pinky and quickly read the single message. 

**Sherlock, kindly check your email. There is a very time-sensitive document enclosed.**

A second text popped up. 

**I will of course be messaging Doctor Watson next, if you ignore me.**

**Absolutely no need. He has been alerted, thanks to Puss in Boots. -SH**

But Sherlock had scarcely sent that message when his phone dinged again. Lestrade this time. He tossed it back on the table without even reading the text, perfectly content to ignore anything less than a seven if it meant continuing their comfortable morning. John lifted his paper again, but Sherlock could see that he wasn’t reading. He chewed his toast — John’s toast — indignantly and pretended to write something in his notebook before standing and collecting their dishes to bring to the sink. He returned to the sitting room but decided to flop into his armchair instead, contemplating again if it was chilly enough for a fire. It was certainly raining hard now. 

When John stood a few moments later, folded up the newspaper, and headed for the stairs, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a tiny twinge of disappointment. 

“Get dressed. It’s got to be at least a six.”  He was holding Sherlock's mobile. 

“Hm?” Sherlock hadn’t even noticed that he’d slipped into a bit of a doze, his head resting lightly against the back of the chair. 

“Lestrade said it’s a good one. It’s better than sitting around the flat all day.” 

Sherlock found that he honestly doubted that, but heaved himself to his feet and squeezed past John to go to his bedroom and get dressed anyway. 

* * *

“John?” Sherlock looked up from where he had crouched next to the body of a young woman. With a sweep of his hand, Lestrade gestured that he was welcome to enter the crime scene, the only bedroom of a small, nondescript house, situated on a tree-lined street with rows of equally bland homes looking like they’d been shipped in wholesale. 

Sherlock was bent forward over the woman’s face and John settled onto the floor to get a better look, both at the victim and at whatever Sherlock was doing. He scanned the body clinically. 

“No injuries consistent with a struggle that I can see. Cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound to the neck, most likely the exterior jugular vein, judging by the blood spray and the…” 

He trailed off, leaning even closer, his forehead creasing in concentration. Sherlock leaned in too, his curls tickling John’s cheek. 

“Yes...I just saw that too.” Sherlock breathed, excitement tinging his voice. He pulled his magnifier from his breast pocket and produced a pair of tweezers from somewhere. Those he handed wordlessly to John, lying nearly flat on his stomach to get a better look at the woman’s face. 

“Gunshot residue.”

“...And glass shards!” 

In unison, they turned their heads toward the window. John hadn’t even noticed that it was shattered, with large pieces laying in jagged disarray on the scuffed wood floor. He turned and caught Sherlock’s gaze, feeling a flutter of excitement as their eyes locked. Sherlock grinned, one of his rare, genuine ones and John didn’t even mind that it was probably just as much for the excitement of the case as it was for him. He couldn’t help but smile back, thrilling at the look of pure joy etched on his friend’s face. This was what they did. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, partners in—

Lestrade burst into the room then, waving a thick pad of paper, like the kind used to take down phone messages. It had a cartoon picture of an elephant on it, with the words “My secret talent is multi-TUSKING” printed in pink swirly font. Beneath the terrible pun, a series of stick figures had been drawn. John scooted away from the body, from Sherlock, and from his sudden rush of fond feelings.

“Think it means anything?” 

John stood up, brushing his hands and knees off. He moved to stand behind Sherlock, who had folded himself neatly and effortlessly into a cross-legged position on the floor, and squinted down at the paper. 

“You mean like...code?” 

“Could be? Yeah? Forensics guy found it, said to show it to you lot. Thought Sherlock might be able to make something of it.” 

Sherlock stood then too, his back and shoulders covered in dust bunnies from the floor. John reached up and brushed them off. 

“I’ll have a look at it. Without any other messages, it will be nearly impossible to break the code. Don’t think it will point us to the killer but it’s worth a shot.” 

John followed Sherlock and Lestrade out of the room. Sherlock waved breezily to the DI, tucking the elephant notepad into his coat pocket. 

“We’ll be in touch, George. Come along, John.” 

* * *

A week later, Sherlock had solved that case and had already plunged into another one, this time involving an elaborate poaching scheme by a couple of crooks that seemed to have learned their criminality from weekend cartoons. 

They’d spent 48 hours following the pair, from the postal shoppe to a shopping mall, all the way out to an abandoned warehouse, never quite catching up to them quickly enough to see what it was they were doing. Neither Sherlock nor John had eaten or slept more than a few bites or a few hours in days. They’d long since passed the stage of crankiness and had devolved into the type of loopy unreality that only happened then. The cab stopped abruptly - Sherlock had paid the cabbie an extra 50 quid to follow the baddies’ car, “silently and quite quickly, thank you”. 

“Your car’s stopped. D’you want me to wait?”

“No. You’ve done enough. Shoo.” 

Sherlock slid out of the back of the car with John stumbling much less gracefully behind. He may have tripped over the kerb a bit but Sherlock didn’t point it out. They were on a busy street, but it wasn’t one John recognised. Tipped-over bins, empty bottles and cans and boxes littered the street. Nestled between coin laundromats, greasy takeaway huts, and shop windows with boarded up windows were several houses, looking awkward yet somehow perfectly at home in the dismal setting. The poachers headed for a house painted bubblegum pink. It had a chain fence around its shabby garden. One shutter was missing a hinge and hung at an angle. 

John crept behind Sherlock, staying far enough back from the pair as to not raise suspicion but close enough that the perps wouldn’t be able to run this time. The shorter one of the two disappeared around the far side of the house, his steps purposeful. The other one, the one built like a refrigerator stood with his arms folded over his chest, glaring out into the street. 

An ambulance wailed past, its flashing lights sending tiny daggers of pain into John’s overtired eyes and brain. He rubbed them and nearly lost his balance when someone suddenly grabbed him, pushing him none-too-gently into a nearby wall. If not for the immediately recognisable scent that filled his nostrils, John might’ve swung at his attacker. Instead, he merely grunted, pushing against Sherlock’s chest with his hands to shift him enough so he could crane his neck around to see. 

“Did they see you?” He kept his voice low, though the ambient noise of the passing cars, people milling about, and a dog barking were surely enough to cover the sound. 

“Don’t think so. They may not be the brightest tools in the shed, but even they have probably noticed by now that they’re being followed.” 

John snickered, watching as The Fridge leaned his considerable weight against one of the metal fence posts and lit a cig. The fence sagged with his weight. 

“Perhaps not. He seems unconcerned. Let’s wait a few moments, see if he goes to join his… er. Partner.” Sherlock shifted, not back or away from John, but closer, the weight of him pressed all along John’s left side as they both continued watching the house and the man casually smoking. The familiar laundry soap-hair product-wool scent of Sherlock wafted between them and something deep in John’s gut stirred. He turned his head slightly, wondering if Sherlock felt it too: the sudden, unmistakable pull between them. It wasn’t new. John had noticed it since their very first meeting, the air often feeling thick and heavy with unspoken sentiment, crackling with electricity like the moment just before a lightning strike. 

Sherlock’s bottom lip was between his teeth as he appeared to be concentrating on watching the house, but John knew him well enough by now to know that his attention wasn’t focussed solely on their stakeout. His eyes darted around, doubtless cataloguing every detail on the street, and also probably every facet of their current position. Should John say something? What would he even say? With a sudden sense of resolve, John sniffed and opened his mouth. 

“Now!” Without warning, Sherlock pushed away from their hiding spot and took off down the pavement, his long legs easily closing the gap as John hurried after him. 

“Shit. Shit, Sherlock. Don’t do anything stupid. Hold on!” John’s curses were muttered under his breath as he chased after his mad friend, pausing only slightly to haul himself over the low fence that Sherlock had vaulted with ease. Sherlock gestured with his chin to the back of the house, touching his own lower back in a gesture John understood to be inquisitive of his weapon. John nodded, reaching into his waistband for his gun and following Sherlock to the back of the house. Both of them were breathing hard as they crept up the cement steps. Beneath John’s feet, he felt a sudden deep vibration. Thunder? Certainly there wasn’t an Underground line this far out? 

Sherlock touched his arm lightly and John looked up, nodding again as Sherlock opened the door. John rushed in, gun drawn, every cell in his body alight with the thrill of it all. 

He stopped short, nearly tumbling into Sherlock as the impossible and ridiculous sight before them registered in his brain, reversed, replayed, tried again.

“Is that…?” 

Sherlock held his arm out, pressing it firmly against John’s middle, as if afraid John hadn’t seen the large animal looming in the room. 

“Yes.” 

“So they…?” 

“Appears so. Yes.” 

“....huh.” 

The elephant in the room trumpeted loudly, rattling the windows. On the far side of the room, behind the elephant’s rump, John and Sherlock could see the two men bent over a small table littered with papers, an ancient laptop and a calculator, yet oblivious to their entrance. Exchanging a glance, John pressed against the wall beside Sherlock and shimmied along the perimeter of the room, smiling as they cuffed the idiotic pair and called in the police to take over. 

* * *

It was until another week had passed that Sherlock remembered the uninteresting email he’d got that lazy Monday morning. There’d been another lull in cases and John was out, at a pub with some mates watching a rugby match. 

He heaved a sigh and opened the email once again. Thirty minutes later, he was hailing a cab, sending a quick text to John with his other hand. 

_ Boring case. Not even a two. -SH  _

_ Batty old woman boxed up her belongings to move. -SH  _

_ Several items claimed as stolen by the movers. -SH  _

_ Stolen items? That’s our specialty! Where should I meet you?  _

Sherlock felt a warm glow at John’s words, his immediate willingness to abandon his rugby match for even a boring case filling him with something dangerously close to fondness. 

_ Brighton. Pawn shop on London Road. Daughter thinks she might have accidentally brought them there. -SH _

The pawn shop was tiny, crammed to the gills with junk. A massively overweight, bumbling man in a floral shirt and giant glasses that made him look rather insect-like greeted them. Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting right to the point. If they hurried, he might be able to convince John to have lunch with him instead of going back to his tiresome  _ mates _ . John liked that sort of thing. 

“Have you had any small figurines brought in in the last ten days? Hurry please. We’re on a tight schedule. And I’d love to resolve this before that massive coronary attack lurking around the corner does you in.” 

John hid his mouth with his hand and pretended to be interested in a display of watches. Sherlock smirked. John was always amused when he sassed at people, so long as it wasn’t little old ladies or children. 

“Yes, two. There’s this one of a monkey and...” the man rummaged around under the counter, gearing himself up for what appeared to be a very lengthy explanation. Sherlock and John exchanged looks and Sherlock pulled an exaggerated eye roll. John snickered, then coughed to cover it up. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. “Aha! And an elephant. Not as rare, this one. Get them in often, in fact, ones of this sort.” 

“We’ll take them both. How much?” 

Sherlock paid the man the meagre amount he requested and they both walked out of the shop, giggles barely suppressed. The air was warm and the sky bright, full of sunshine and puffy, white clouds. 

“He had no idea he had such valuable pieces in his collection, did he? Are those real ivory?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed. “And you’re correct. That bloke wouldn’t know a valuable item if it bit him on the arse.”

John grinned at him sunnily. 

“Hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

* * *

John stepped out onto the pavement, closing and locking the door behind them. They’d just finished a long and boring virtual debriefing with some of Mycroft’s henchmen and were both feeling rather stir crazy. It was a beautiful spring day and so John had suggested they go for a walk to get some fresh air. In front of him, Sherlock was gazing up into the sky, his eyebrows pinched in concentration. 

“Looking at something in particular?” 

“The clouds. Didn’t you ever look for shapes in them when you were a boy?”

John looked at him, surprised. “Course I did.” It always startled him a bit to hear about the refreshingly normal parts of Sherlock’s childhood. 

Sherlock pointed overhead and to the east. 

“Look at that one, with the long piece winding out from the rest and the half circle on the body? Reminds me of an—"

“Elephant.” John finished, turning to look at him with a smile. 

“Yes. Of course it’s so obvious, when one knows where to look.” Sherlock returned the smile, gesturing with a wide and gentlemanly sweep of his arm. “Shall we?”

“Yes.”


End file.
